It felt like somewhere she belonged.
I crept in slowly, though. As Ariella chopped, kneaded, stirred, she found herself glancing toward the door Callum had left through. Recalling Mairi’s fond scolding. At the way her laughter softened when her husband teased her. At Isla’s bright giggles when Callum lifted her off her feet. At Ewan’s pride when Callum tousled his hair.
Warmth, love, and partnership was woven through every interaction.
She did not think she envied them, but her chest tightened, faint and unfamiliar. It flickered like a small flame she didn’t fully understand.
She focused on the dough beneath her hands, shaping rolls while Mairi hummed an old lullaby, the kind sung to children on storm-heavy nights.
The warmth of the kitchen seeped into Ariella’s bones.
This felt like a future she might want.
A place she could belong.
A life she had never dared picture for herself.
And when she did think of such a life. One filled with love, warmth, and sharing burdens, Maxwell’s image rose first. Though, she cut that thought away as quickly as it came because she wasn’t ready to examine it.
Not after the last night in his study. Not after the way he had touched her, kissed her, and completely undid her… just to retreat behind walls of cold distance once more.
She kneaded harder.
Mairi slid a bowl of rising dough toward the hearth, then leaned her hip against the table. “Ye like it here,” she observed.
Ariella blinked. “Is it so obvious?”
“Obvious as salt,” Mairi said. “Ye walk in and it looks like we’ve added a window. Ye cannae pretend ye daenae brighten this place.”
Heat rose to Ariella’s cheeks. “Ye flatter me.”
“Nay. I see truth,” Mairi said. “We are a loud house. A messy one. But we are glad for ye, me lady. Glad for the company. And glad for the laughter ye bring.”
Ariella swallowed.
Her throat felt tight again.
She looked around at the bustling kitchen and felt like she belonged there. Something she hadn’t known she needed. But even as she leaned into that warmth, a thread of worry pulled at her.
Maxwell had not looked at her since that night.
Not properly.
Not in a way that meant anything.
And she hadn’t realized how much she wanted that until she didn’t have it.
“Ye ken,” Mairi said later as they prepared the afternoon stew, “folk carry scars ye cannae see.”
Ariella looked up from the pot, brow furrowing. “What do ye mean?”
Mairi stirred slowly, her voice lowering. “Laird Maxwell. He lost his parents young.”
Ariella straightened. “Both?”
“Aye. Fever took his maither. Accident took his father nae long after. Left the lad with a clan to run before he’d grown into his boots.”
Ariella’s hand faltered on the ladle.
